Like many young American boys in the 90s, I played little league baseball.
I really enjoyed it. All my best friends were on the team, so every Saturday was another chance for us to combine our 12 year old super powers (not very super but stay with me) and defeat the 12 year olds in different colored shirts.
I was a decent pitcher, bad at most other positions and a below (okay, way below) average hitter.
I was very coordinated but each time I stepped into the batters box there was one glaring problem.
I was afraid of the ball.
Specifically, it making contact with my face. Or making contact with the ill-fitting Darth Vader-esque helmet the coach had slapped on me just moments before.
Most of the time, as the ball left the pitchers hand, I was closer to folding into a limp noodle on the dirt than swinging.
In fact, one particular Saturday I went wet spaghetti too early and in the process tossed my bat into the air. The pitch was waaay outside but managed to contact my bat as it too hurled through the air. It was called a foul ball, and per league rules, I struck out. Ouch.
Anyway, you could count on one thing each time I stepped into the batters box. There was going to be a one pitch where I’d made up my mind to swing as hard as I could. Whatever the pitcher was throwing, wherever it was heading — I was swinging.
And, over hundreds of at bats, the law of averages swung it’s probabilistic head my way.
I hit a home run.
6 inches over the fence in dead center field. Possible aided by a microburst.
Each time I reflect back on this story, I remind myself that if I keep swinging (at whatever it is I’m doing) then I’m bound to get a hit — maybe even a home run.
Hat tip to Alexander Sotiriou, who, as I sat in a euphoric stupor on the bench, ran and fetched the ball for me.